


a familiar hunger

by fitzefitcher



Series: I'm going to save all the Legion NPCs and no one can stop me [3]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Death Knight, Gen, Redemption, Rescue, casually gives all my OCs artifact weapons it's canon now no one can stop me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8336881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitzefitcher/pseuds/fitzefitcher
Summary: When they find Cyana, it is well after Cordana has had her way with her.
Or, demon hunters and death knights have more in common than they think.





	1. Chapter 1

When they find Cyana, it is well after Cordana has had her way with her.

 

That is to say, she has become a great and terrible creature, larger and more monstrous, with teeth too long and sharp to fit inside her mouth anymore. Kor'vas is just out of sight, waiting for her strange allies to ready themselves before going in for the kill. Today she finds herself with two undead: Drana, an Orc death knight, looking tragically young in her runty, pallid corpse of a body, and Megala Redwillow, a forsaken priest, and an oddly chipper one at that, given that her body is held together only by twine and hope.

Drana eyes the nascent demon up and down. Her eyes are glazed over and her skin is wan and pale, both it and her hair damp with sweat.

“Alright Ma, how do you wanna do this?” she asks, turning to the forsaken in question. Megala’s face scrunches up in thought, and Kor'vas discovers that the stitches holding her flesh together are thankfully flexible and do not tear when she grimaces. The Orc calling her, her mother is still a bit puzzling, however.

“Hmm, she hasn’t been under their sway for that long. It should be an easy enough task to pry their hands off of her,” she decides. “Although, I’m not sure if we can undo the damage as far as her more physical transformations go. We’ll cross the bridge when we come to it, I suppose.” Kor'vas stares at her in disbelief.

“You think it so easy to free her from the Legion’s grasp?” she asks, irritated at her presumption.

“We’re not freeing her from the whole Legion- just Miss Felsong,” Megala points out. “And not to be rude, but Miss Felsong is still a neophyte as far as demons go. She’s powerful, but she hasn’t been one long enough to really know what she’s doing. She’s relying on brute strength and Gul'dan’s good graces for the most part.” She peers judgingly at the runic circle scrawled under their feet. “Messiest spellwork I’ve seen in a while,” she mutters.

“And we’re going to do this, how?” Kor'vas presses, a little impatiently. Megala looks at her, choosing her words carefully.

“We’ll handle this the way we handle all delicate matters,” she tells her patiently. “With gentleness and restraint.” At first Kor'vas thinks the priest is messing with her, fury rising, but the staff she carries crackles in her fist, light dancing over her knuckles like lightning. She feels a strange sort of presence focused on her, similar to the priest’s aura of pervasive warmth that comes with most light-users but not quite, this feeling wilder, more feral somehow. It’s taking a strong will indeed to keep it in check, its ire provoked with a mere thought of aggression towards its bearer.

“Can you keep her distracted from me?” she asks. Drana nods at her.

“I got it,” she affirms confidently, grinning crookedly. She hefts her weapon over her shoulders, balancing the nasty-looking blade across the breadth of them. “Ready when you are, Ma.” Megala smiles gently.

“Thank you, dear. Now, then, let’s get started.” Drana’s grin grows wider, and she takes her blade in both hands, an eerie fire creeping at its edge, before charging into the clearing.

Cordana clears out quickly as expected, leaving Cyana staggering as the fel barrier falls suddenly in her absence.

“Cyana, don’t give in!” Kor'vas exclaims, readying her glaives.

“I am more powerful than all of you,” she slurs, breathing heavily. Megala cringes. The demon attempts to charge her, alarmingly fast despite her drunken stupor, but Drana cuts her off, fire dancing along her blade. She attempts to sidestep the Orc, but Kor'vas is right there to stop her.

“This is for your own good, love,” Megala tells her apologetically, and raises the staff into the air. Light’s Wrath lives up to its namesake, volatile energy crackling around it before a bolt of golden lightning fires from it and strikes Cyana on the crown of her head. She seizes up and shudders, jaw clenching too tight as the sparks fly over her body, and collapses after a moment or so. No one moves, Cyana’s unconscious body still smoking.

“Right, then,” Megala says, filling the awkward silence. She pads over to the fallen demon, putting her staff away and light swirling around the skeletal fingers of her left hand. It flows from them, streaming through the air lazily and washing over Cyana. She doesn’t even flinch as it cleanses whatever curse Cordana had seared onto her. It does not, however, revert her body back to how it was before, the monstrousness lingering even through the light’s gaze. Kor'vas twinges in sympathy.

“That’s gonna be a hell of a thing to wake up to,” Drana says, tipping her head at Cyana’s, well, everything. She doesn’t look as feverish, at least, breathing relatively normally and skin no longer flushed and sweaty.

“To be honest,” Megala starts, continuing her work. “I’m not sure what her physical state will be upon waking up. She might be weak, she might be going through fel withdrawal; this is a little bit of a crapshoot here. I’m going to have to take her back to the temple for overnight observation.” Kor'vas squints at her.

“You don’t think we have the means to take care of her?” she asks, tired and moody from the whole affair.

“No, I know you have the means,” Megala replies patiently. “I’m just not sure how many would be willing to take her back, or if your fellows would even allow her to live. Or even just be too tempted by a new demon in a weakened state, power just ripe for the picking.” She’s not malicious in how she says this, certainly, but that doesn’t stop Kor'vas from bristling.

“I apologize; I am not trying to offend,” she explains. “I just know how difficult it is to repress instincts deeply ingrained into you by unnatural forces. And this- this would be dangling a raw steak in front of starving dogs, wouldn’t it?” She’s too somber when she says this to mean anything by it, Kor'vas notes, the anger bleeding out of her and soul-deep exhaustion taking its place as she eyes up the forsaken’s skeletal fingers and ragged stitching. Cyana’s latent power is a beacon burning the backs of her eyelids, a familiar hunger rousing itself from sleep.

“Yeah,” she agrees albeit grudgingly. “A bit.” Drana nods sympathetically, if a bit manic, still jittery from combat. She can’t seem to stop moving.

“I’m,” she starts, hands shaking a little. “I’m gonna go take take of something,” she says, looking faraway at the demons still wreaking havoc below. In her eyes is a similar hunger to the one currently gripping the demon hunter’s body.

“I’ll come with you,” Kor'vas says, trotting after Drana’s stomping. Drana turns back and cracks a half-smirk, appreciative of the company.

“Give ‘me hell, love,” Megala calls after them. Drana waves at her. After a moment, Kor'vas does, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was done w/ cyana's bit but as it turns out, I Was Not so here you go lol
> 
> thaon is probably next? I'm still figuring this out lol

It takes her a while to wake up.

Her eyelids flutter but do not open just yet, mind reaching consciousness before the rest of her body does. She can see vague shapes and colors through her eyelids, can hear the shuffle of feet moving across the floor and something like chimes clinking softly. There’s a soft, pervasive warmth enveloping her aching body, and it’s odd because there seems to be this strange sort of sentience to it, it almost deliberately congregating where she is afflicted the most.

She hears the words, “Oh, I think she’s coming to,” and her eyelids blearily crack open. She finds herself face to face with the very thing that struck her down.

“Good morning, Miss Nightglaive. You are currently staying at the Netherlight Temple,” the undead tells her straight away, before she can ask.

“How are you feeling?” she asks gently, eerie yellow eyes studying her carefully. The other one- the orc with dark hair and palid skin- lurks nearby, none too subtly drumming her fingers on the hilt of her sword. Likewise, though the undead does not wield it, the staff she carried lies to the side, unseen light crackling around her unbidden. She sees no sign of Kor'vas and is simultaneously relieved and ashamed, the mingling discomfort leaving her nauseous.

“Sore,” she replies finally, voice raspy and deep. It’s much deeper than she remembers it being, and it almost startles her. It hurts to talk. It hurts to do anything besides just lie there, really.

“That’s to be expected; you did go through quite a few growing pains,” the undead explains, and it’s hard to decipher whether or not that statement is at her expense. “Where do you hurt the worst?” Cyana thinks about it for a moment.

“Teeth,” she says finally, slurs it to be accurate. “And back.” The undead cringes.

“Alright, let’s take a look. Are you able to sit up?” Experimentally, she tries pushing herself off the floor. It doesn’t really work out in her favor; her wrist crumples under her own weight, sharp pain shooting up her arm. She doesn’t fall back to the ground though, the orc rushing to catch her.

“Gently, Drana, gently,” the undead reminds, eyeing her tightening grip around Cyana’s shoulders. Drana snorts at her grumpily, but complies. “Thank you, honey.”

“Are you alright like this?” she asks Cyana. “This doesn’t hurt you?”

“No more than I already am,” she replies. The undead smiles weakly.

“That’s good at least. Open your mouth, please?” Cyana notices the small, cylindrical device held in one hand, the hands themselves covered with clean, white surgeon’s gloves.

“Need to see what’s going on in there before I can do anything about it,” she explains. “Oh, sorry- I’m Megala, by the way. Just so you know who’s sticking their hands in your mouth,” she laughs. “Now, open up.” Cyana eyes her warily but complies, and Megala, apparently, flicks a little switch on the side of the device she holds in her hands, and light comes streaming out one end. She gently reaches in with one hand, the other holding the device pointing towards the inside of her mouth.

“Oh dear,” she says, the picture of reassurance. “Well, your gums are inflamed, probably from the sudden growth,” she explains, delicately touching around her gum line. She tries not to flinch, sensitive. “It looks like you’ve grown another set of canine teeth? I’m no dentist but this is quite an impressive set of fangs you have here.” She probably doesn’t realize the sort of effect she’s causing by saying that, but that doesn’t stop guilt and shame from washing over her anew. She’s really trying not to think about it, but it’s difficult when every sensation she’s currently experiencing links directly back to her betrayal and subsequent transformation. It’s hard to block out the mantra of “weak, weak, weak” reverberating through her head, and she’s too tired to stop her eyes from watering.

Megala notices immediately, hastily withdrawing her hands and apologetically going “Oh, sorry, sorry! Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

Cyana shakes her head minutely, trying to keep movement to a minimum when her head’s still throbbing. Megala gently cups her jaw, and she can see a soft glow just below her line of sight, soothing the aches and pains there.

“Is that better?” she asks. Cyana nods. It’s a little awkward because Megala is still holding her jaw, but it doesn’t hurt at least.

“Are you alright with me taking a look at your wings?” she asks her carefully. Fundamentally, no, but that’s more directed at the fact that she even has them. They’re not supposed to be permanent, just to be summoned at a whim.

“Yes,” she tells her anyway, attempting to swallow down her guilt.

“You’ll probably have to use Drana for support for this one. Is that okay?” Megala asks. Drana looks incredibly annoyed with this but makes no move to argue it.

“Yes,” Cyana tells her again. It feels no less fake than the first time around. Drana shuffles to her front while Megala steps behind her delicately, the orc very, very carefully helping her to lean over onto her shoulder.

“You can use your arms to balance yourself,” she says gruffly. “It’s okay.” Cyana does so, wrapping her arms around her. She ends up leaning her head on Drana’s shoulder, but she doesn’t seem to mind too much. Megala’s probing is delicate and easily ignored. She takes this opportunity to peer around the temple and focus on literally anything besides her torn and battered wings.

For being so quiet, it’s surprisingly crowded, people speaking in hushed tones and nothing much louder than the crinkle of scrolls and paper and the soft ringing of the naaru she can see in its side chamber down the hall. The loudest thing, in fact, is a what appears to be a blood elf attempting to stifle her own snickering while getting glared at by a troll bearing a staff whose power rivals Megala’s, crystal shards clinking together with a sentience all its own. The priest among them is clearly the troll, accompanied by what appears to be a young vrykul and a nightfallen just shy of going fully withered, both dutifully following her around, in addition to the rambunctious blood elf. She wasn’t aware that non-priests were allowed here. Though she’s not sure that it would really matter to them, judging by the other nearby priests’ unappreciative stares. Indeed, there’s a little old man, ancient far before he was undead it seems, dressed in dark robes with a grimace etched onto his face, patience being tested. The human woman with him, white-robed and certainly not young but enough of an age difference where she could be his daughter- granddaughter, even- is far less patient than he, smiling something small and biting. The only one who appears to be amused by this turn of events is a draenei just off to the side, tall and with dark hair and dark skin. She would almost be demure if not for the dagger hanging off of her hip, an eyeball socketed into the blade guard. It, too, radiates a power to rival the staff. The eye turns around to look at her, sensing her gaze, and after a moment, the draenei glances at her from the corner of her eye as well. Cyana turns her head away.

“Don’t mind them, dear; they’re just a bit rowdy is all,” Megala explains, noticing her movement. “They’re just taking some time to sort out which issue requires our attention the most. There’s quite a bit going on, you know.”

“Who are they?” She asks.

“They’re the other High Priests,” she continues. “One to wield each of our holy weapons. It’s fairer this way, rather than to have one wield all.”

“It’s also less of a strain, you see- it takes quite a bit of will to rein in one, so three would be a bit much for one person to handle.”

The staff Megala carries still radiates a strange, wild sort of energy, and Cyana has the curious notion that it has its attention focused on her, unseen light curling around its bearer as warning to stay away.

“And the others?” she asks. Megala chuckles.

“Just some strays picked up along the way,” she says. It doesn’t seem as though anyone’s too happy about their intrusion, except for maybe the blood elf. Guilt once again takes the opportunity creep back, and before she can stop herself, she asks:

“Where is Kor'vas?” Megala hums.

“She’s coming to check up on you later,” she explains. “It was a bit too dangerous to leave you with the illidari at the time, but it looks like you should be alright now.”

Weak, says the guilt. Weak, weak, weak. Her vision blurs.

“Alright, well it looks like that apart from some bruising, your wings have held up pretty well,” Megala reports. “Besides the usual growing pains, of course. You can actually go home with Kor'vas when she comes to get you, if you like.” Cyana physically recoils at the thought. She can’t help it.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” the priest apologizes immediately, light already clinging to her gloves.

“No,” Cyana mumbles. She wishes that Megala never asked, because now she’s crying, and she would’ve been fine if she had just left it alone. Drana noticeably stiffens.

“What’s wrong?” she asks sympathetically. Cyana doesn’t say anything. She can’t. She can’t really do much of anything except maybe attempt to push herself off of Drana with trembling hands, and really, she can’t do that, either, what with the orc making what is probably the most awkward attempt at comforting that she’s ever experienced. Drana, with hands still encased in plate armor, gives her a couple of tentative pats on the shoulder. None of them hit in the same spot, like she’s still trying to figure out where she can actually put her hand without hurting her.

What breaks her, however, is Megala running her fingers through her hair soothingly.

“What’s wrong?” she asks again.

“I can’t go back,” Cyana replies miserably. “They’re not going to take me back.”

“Yes, they will,” Megala tells her gently.

“No, you don’t- They’re not-” She takes a moment to catch her breath. “They’re not going to take me back. I was weak. I betrayed them.”

“You didn’t betray them,” she reassures her. “You were captured and tortured. That’s hardly your fault, and Kor'vas knows that. They all know that. As a matter of fact, while we were looking for you, we ended up saving quite a few of your comrades from this fate as well.”

“They’re not going to turn you away, dear. Trust me when I say this,” Megala tells her, continuing to pet her hair comfortingly. “And if not, you’re always welcome here.”

Cyana still can’t quite bring herself to believe her, but. She appreciates the sentiment, at least. It’s nice to have faith placed in her unconditionally, for once.

**Author's Note:**

> *fingerguns* fun fact acherus DKs are the only ones that need to kill in order to function, because arthas just thought it would be rad, apparently
> 
> also demon hunters literally do not know how to hold on to their own people holy fuck


End file.
